


Drink From The Well Of Prosperity

by fElBiTeR



Category: Iron Fist (TV), Marvel
Genre: Explicit Language, Father/Son Incest, Finger Sucking, I'm Going to Hell, Kissing It Better, M/M, Mentioned Joy Meachum, Mildly Dubious Consent, Murder Kink, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, Self-Destructive Behavior, Touch-Starved, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-08 19:55:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10394871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fElBiTeR/pseuds/fElBiTeR
Summary: Ward Meachum contemplated the more frustrating aspects in his already fucked up life. Namely, his goddamned father and his new psychotic tendancies.





	

**Author's Note:**

> There are no fics for this pairing, let alone for Iron Fist, so I rolled up my sleeves and whipped this up.
> 
> Apparently, people hated the show, so I guess I shouldn't expect any readers :(
> 
> Enjoy.

“Get your ass over here and help us,” his father growled at him, holding pressure over Joy’s bloody wound. Ward stared and stared and stared at the silence. He hadn't meant for Joy to get shot, he hadn’t—she—

He loved Joy. And he loved his father. He loves his twisted as fuck family, but it had been too much, hiding everything from Joy for the last 13 goddamned years of his life and it had been so wonderful, so _euphoric_ when he had finally stabbed his father with the sharp end of a blade. The man hadn't even seen it coming, thinking that Ward was too meek and submissive to do otherwise. Ward had poured his heart out, tears with shallowed breathing, and shakily said, “I am _sick_ of it! The control, the _manipulation_!” And then the blade went into his father’s chest one—two—Harold looked quite surprised—three—four—

He wanted to make them proud, but Joy wouldn't believe in him, nor _trust in him_. He _was not_ addicted to drugs and he _was not_ relapsing, or at least, it _wasn't his fault_. It had been an ugly accident, but she pointed fingers at him until she had no more fingers to point _with_ , and he had to take all the jabs from her.

Why did everybody have to be so indirectly accusing? ‘No’ to this, ‘I thought you knew better’ to that. Fuck.

And his father, his motherfucking father—

Ward Meachum was one of his father’s biggest failures. He hated that man, with every cell of his being, but he had also enjoyed being the only person his father could rely on, which was a juxtaposition to how he _actually_ felt when he was anywhere near the other man.

When his father called him over for an emergency earlier that month, he thought to himself, _maybe I can still try to look like a semi-respectable human being_ , but when he went up those fucking elevators, there were two dead bodies on the floor waiting for him, sour smelling with their faces caved in and teeth missing. Ward had wanted to retch, but the trash can he grabbed had a fucking finger in it. And by the looks of it, his _father’s_ finger.

Harold Meachum had only raised an eyebrow in amusement.

Ward had glanced up at the other man’s bloody hand, a small stump where the finger had been. He was suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to grab the finger and stick it back on his father’s hand because no, a finger shouldn't be missing no matter how much he hated the man. Before knew it, he had the finger squeezed tightly in one hand, still twitching.

“H-hah,” Ward breathed, dropping the finger back onto the even bloodier floor immediately. Why had he picked up his father's _chopped off finger_? 

 _Okay,_ he thought. _That hadn't been the stupidest thing I've ever done unconsciously._  He could taste bile at the back of his throat. _But it's pretty high up on the list._

“Hmm,” Harold responded, with a fucking smile on his face.

“You called me in the middle of the night _to dump bodies_ for you?” Ward had said in an incredulous tone, borderline hysterical.

“Well, who else was I gonna call, Ward?” his father said as-a-matter-of-factly.

“I knew you’d come. You always do.” The problem _was_ , his dad was right. He couldn't say no and risk dragging Joy into this fucking mess, and on the other hand, what if Harold got someone else to do his dirty work? To visit him, specifically, where no one else would know? And for the person taking care of his father not be him?

“Could do with an extra hand on this,” Harold had spoken casually, as if he were just have small talk about the weather.

Ward eyed the hammer, brain matter and bursted blood vessels dripping off the handle.

“Come on,” his father urged him. “Just like when we when _deer_ hunting when you were a kid.”

“You have to clean your kill,” Harold pushed the hammer closer to Ward’s face.

“We never _went_ hunting,” Ward grimaced down at the hammer with a deep distaste.

“Oh,” Harold responded in false recognition. “Well, maybe it was your sister—”

Ward had never wanted to rip the man apart as much as he had in that moment for mentioning Joy. He cut his father off by grabbing the bloody hammer. When he leaned back to pull away, his father hadn't let go. They stayed like that for a moment too long.

Harold had leaned closer, resting his head on Ward’s hand.

“Thank you, son,” Harold had cooed, and then gently pressed his lips to Ward’s injured hand.

“D-dad? What the fuck are you—” Ward panicked, accidentally calling his father ‘Dad’ aloud in the first time in forever. His father shushed him, and held both of his hands firmly. Ward abruptly dropped the hammer, which was a mistake on his part because hi _s father was dangerous_.

Harold brought one of his fingers closer to his mouth and nipped it gently, causing Ward to flinch back. His hand had a pleasant sting where Harold’s mouth had been. He squeezed his eyes shut and felt as Harold continued along each individual finger on his bandaged left hand at a slow pace.

When Ward finally built up enough courage to wring open his eyes, he was greeted with the sight of his father on his knees beside him. _His father—this was so fucking wrong_ —

“You’re a sick fuck,” Ward had spat out, trying to wriggle out of his father’s grasp.

“And apparently, so are you,” Harold murmured, reaching his other hand closer to Ward’s waist. Ward hadn't understood what his dad meant until Harold had lightly palmed at his growing half hard erection, one thumb swirling in soothing circles on the sloping area below the zipper of his dress pants.

Ward bit down hard on his lower lip to avoid an escaping groan.

“I wonder if this part takes after me, as well?” Harold mused, raising his head to look Ward in the eye. Ward froze like a deer in headlights.

“Answer my question, Ward,” Harold’s faced leaned uncomfortably close to his, eyes still locked on. Ward gave a weak shrug of his shoulders, twisting away from the other man.

“You can do better than that, son,” Harold chided, pressing down _harder_.

 _Holy fuck_.

Someone in the room was gasping pathetically, and then Ward realized it was _him_ who was making those noises. He raised a clenched fist to his mouth to silence the gasping, but a hand gripped his wrist tightly, hard enough to leave bruises that he'd have to hide from Joy tomorrow.

“Ah ah ah,” Harold tutted. “I want to hear you.” Harold lowered Ward’s hand down to his own lap and guided it to his crotch.

“Do you feel that?” Harold whispered menacingly. Ward arched against his own hand, covered by Harold’s slightly larger one. Ward gulped and nodded his head.

“Good,” he whispered. His father was _insane_. Even if Harold hadn’t acted much of a father, they were still biologically related, not to mention there were dead bodies a couple feet over.

Harold raised his bloody hand, the one that had held the hammer, and gently clasped onto Ward’s cheek. The blood smeared onto his chin, and he shuddered at how unhygienic it was. Harold moved his hand closer to Ward’s mouth, enough so that Ward could smell the sharp trace of iron and metal, and feel the slick, thick blood trailing down his face.

He opened his mouth, because he was just as _insane_ as his father. Two fingers dipped in, and Ward took a tentative lick, only to get a mouth full of the same iron he had smelled earlier. The fingers pressed down firmly onto his tongue, and Ward gagged for a moment before realizing the pause was meant for him to make a decision.

His mouth closed down on the fingers, taking them all the way up to the second knuckle. He slowly began to suck at them, his tongue swirling around the fingers and licking the disgusting blood off them, as if he were cleansing his father’s fingers of human filth. The warm muscle curled around the base of Harold's fingers.

Harold’s other hand moved away from his crotch, and Ward gave a small whine. He felt his face burn hot at the noises he would never admit making.

“You’re a little needy thing, aren’t you?” Ward could feel Harold grinning against the side of his face. The hand went higher until it was tangled into Ward’s hair, and stroking it in the way a parent should do for their child. He grimaced.

Ward couldn’t help it. He was fucking touch starved with his mother long dead, him needing to distancing himself from Joy, and not getting laid for the good of the company because who knows? Anyone may want to steal a multi-billion dollar company. So here he was, stooping so low and subjecting himself to his father’s touch. It was gentle, but it was a lie. Everything about _him_ was a _lie_.

Ward sobbed deeply and Harold moved him closer to his dad’s chest. His father had embraced him while years of fucked up tension was released as he heaved and wasted tears that could be used for the company. The Rand company.

 ***

Ward hadn’t been able to look at his father since, mostly because he ended up still being hard _even after_ he had disposed of the bodies. He had jacked off alone in his home like a hormonal teenager, shamefully aware of the name that fell out of his lips when he finally finished.

He had killed his father later that week.

***

Ward got off his ass and helped Joy’s wound as best he could. His father only had eyes for Joy, now that he had fucked up beyond redemption. Harold would smile at her brightly, like he always did, but the nature of Joy’s relationship with him would only be that of a child and her father. Ward hated Joy Meachum for taking his father away from him. All his time was spent with her, now.

Ward couldn’t—

He eyed the open and broken window and wondered what it would feel like to have the wind against his face, to finally be free. When he looked back at Joy, he realized that Harold had seen him eyeing the window. The man’s face slowly morphed into a sickening too-sweet grin, specifically directed at Ward, all while shaking his head. His father watched him with rapt attention, and his whole body flushed involuntary under Harold's gaze.

God, _seriously_. What the fuck was wrong with him?

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> amateur writer writing the rarest rare pair to ever rare
> 
> Do you see how twisted this is? Yehp, thought so.


End file.
